Dear Michael Mell, Today Is Going To Be A Good Day And Here's Why
by That0neBitchOverThere
Summary: Wherein Michael is a sad cinnamon roll, makes some bad choices and then his entire life changes because of a certain salty transfer student. I found the image on Google, so I can't give any actual credit to the creator, it is signed as 'SinisterSpooks', though so if anyone knows their tumblr or something so I can credit them better, please let me know.
1. Prologue: Stop

**I'm really sorry that I abandoned all of my writing for so long… I really haven't been in the best of mental states, I'm still not, but I need to write, something to get my mind away from where it has been. And of course I come back to the writing scene not with a new chapter for something that I've been working on for more than a year, oh no. But a new thing for a new fandom(s, because this is gonna be a cross-over, sorry not sorry into two things that I've never written for before). Anyways… Sorry if this is all over the place. I just started writing and it kinda turned into a projection of my own mental state with a kinda plot, not really but I'm gonna make that happen. This. Is. Not. A. Happy. Fic. At least not right now, we'll see how it goes. Trigger warnings (for this chapter): SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, BLOOD, SELF HARM, ANXIETY ATTACK, RECREATIONAL DRUG USAGE, BAD COPING SKILLS, OOC-NESS, probably something else that I forgot. Sorry for this being such a long A/N… Like I said, this is my first time writing for this fandom, and I'm definitely projecting my own own thoughts and actions onto our precious cinnamon roll son and I'm really sorry about that and all the OOC-ness that is bound to happen. Anyways, I hope you can enjoy this (as much as possible, I mean… It's depressing af and all), but be sure to take care of yourselves! Don't let yourself get to the state of mind where you're self medicating or hurting yourself to feel better, okay..?**

This was something Michael Mell was incredibly used to and it was becoming even more familiar as time passed. The ashy air rushing into his lungs, singeing his throat as he took it down. The way his head would begin swimming before floating into a pleasant emptiness and the hollow sensation would take over. And once he had decided he had smoked enough for the moment, the smoldering embers at the end of his joint were smothered into his red and black swirled ashtray before the tray was lifted to reveal another form of release, a way to escape his emotions along with his thoughts. He pulled off his beloved hoodie, this time tossing it onto his bed as he rests his forearm against his knee and brings down the still sharp blade, glinting even in the low light as he slides it smoothly across his skin. He presses deeply, avoiding tracing it along the still healing strips of skin, some as fresh as the day before, as he carves mindlessly into the tiniest bit of his arm that isn't covered in scar tissue or scabbing. Even just the one stroke of his singular blade helped, his breathing becomes a bit more steady and his emotions pour out, flowing along in the steady dripping of his blood onto his floor. Lifting the cold, unfeeling metal from his skin, he repositions the blade again and again until he feels satisfied with his work. Making his way to the bathroom, he washes the blood away, finding the water, tinged with the evidence of his emotional instability swirling down the into the drain satisfying as he dries off his arm, easily retrieving the first aid kit under the sink to patch up his arm until the bleeding subsides.

Once he cleans up all of the blood on his arm and on the floor and returns his hoodie to his person, Michael sinks down onto his bed, clutching a pillow close to his chest so he could sob into it softly. The glasses usually perched on his nose had found their way off his face and down onto his mattress as he curled in on himself , sobs shaking his body as his breathing came even more erratically. His head went fuzzy, in a different way than it already was, his eyesight blurred, and little black spots popped up in his vision and he takes that as his cue ro begin to slow his breathing, to actually intake some oxygen, even if he almost chokes on it at first. Eventually his breathing returns to normal and he squeezes his pillow tighter to his chest. This was stupid. He knew that. Knew that all of this self destruction wasn't helpful, knew that in the end it wouldn't be his own hand forcing him down into the nothingness of death. But he also knew that he couldn't just _stop_ this deleterious behaviour. The only sort of structure and comfort he had in his day to day life.

With a sigh, Michael rubs at his face, drying it of tears as he pulls on his glasses and gets up move across his room and turn on his TV, readying his gaming system so he could distract himself with the senseless slaughter of digitized zombies. He knew that it wouldn't help, not really, but it was something to do. Something to pass the time so that his moms wouldn't worry if either of them came in to check on him. And he knew, _he knew_ , that he should tell them. Say that he wasn't okay. That he hadn't been for so long, but he couldn't. He couldn't handle the concern or worry or pity or any other emotion they might feel over the realization that their son was a fuck up. That he wasn't as happy and cheerful and carefree as they thought. He was so honestly done with this stupid, empty existence he was stumbling through day after day after day, but he didn't, he _couldn't_ just stop. Stop doing exactly the same thing he had been for years. Just stop going through the motions. Stop pretending. Stop lying. Stop living. Stop existing. Stop, stop, stop. Stop. STOP. STOP!

Michael took a shaky breath, grounding himself once more into his reality. Taking in the air that still had a hint of smoke in it, the scent of burning herbs helped a bit as he refocused his gaze onto the screen in front of him, starting up his game, choosing the single player option, as he was becoming increasingly used to after Jeremy had decided that twelve years of friendship between them had meant nothing. But he couldn't even pretend to be surprised. Jeremy had already given up him up so easily, only coming back when he needed help. It had gotten better for a little bit, but then it was back to unanswered texts and silence in school. Sure, he wasn't entirely alone, he still had one or two people he could talk to, but it wasn't the same. They weren't close. He wouldn't even call them friends, not really. They just mutually had no one else, they were together in their solidarity, but they were all content to have nothing to do with each other. Except Michael. Michael who was drowning in his loneliness and self-deprecation, his self-loathing and depression, his anxiety and barely existent self-esteem. He was done with it.

He made a decision. Steeled himself. Wiped at his eyes again before actually focusing on Apocalypse of the Damned.


	2. First Meetings

**Yo! What's up? Here's a new chapter for this! The boy's first interaction. Now, Sort of explanation: this takes place post BMC in a universe where Connor doesn't die, but he does end up transferring schools after having been through rehab. So, yes. This is super OOC, sorry… Wednesday. Yes, she is the girl from Sev Elev who gave Michael a generous pour. She's an OC of my friend's who I'm stealing for the purposes of this fic. (I have permission) She might be appearing again.**

It was way too early on a Friday to be awake. Yes, Michael had to go to school, but that didn't mean he had to be awake at five o'clock in the morning. It didn't take him that long to get ready, yet here he was, already awake and unable to drift back to bed. Letting out a soft curse, he rolls out of bed and gets ready for the day. He eats breakfast slowly, picking and pushing at his food in the hopes that the time would go faster, calling out a cracked 'goodbye' to his mom as she left for work. Once he was done eating he still had a bit more than a half hour so he went back to his room, he might as well loosen up a bit before what was supposed to be his last day at Middleborough High School. He finishes off the blunt he had been smoking the day before, rolls up a new one and smokes that down as well, with his body no longer quite as tense, he makes his way out of the house, calling a farewell to his mother as he pulls shut the door and takes his keys for the damn P.T. Cruiser from his pocket.

Slipping behind the wheel, he blinks away the bleariness and turns his key in the ignition, shifts the car into drive and goes, perhaps a bit too fast as he realizes that the late bell will be ringing soon. As he maneuvers his way through the parking lot, trying to find a space to park. It takes a while, as he should have expected, considering how late he was. Finally finding an empty slot, Michael pulls in, parks and gets out, he walks into the building.

He was already late, so why rush? He was just passing the bathroom while on his way to his first class when the door slammed open. Startled by the sudden loud noise, Michael turns to complain to the culprit, more than likely Rich. He was small but loud. He didn't find the previously SQUIPped, no longer bully standing there, though. Instead his eyes found a tall unfamiliar figure with long brunet hair, an angry expression, and pale skin that only looked lighter thanks to the black hoodie he was wearing. Michael couldn't help his lingering gaze, they didn't get many transfer students here. With a much more focused glare and a growl of, "What the fuck are you looking at?" The kid stalks past him and Michael couldn't _not_ notice the scent of tobacco coming from the taller boy. Shaking off the run in, Michael continues on to his first period class, slipping into a seat near the door while hoping that his teacher hadn't noticed his late arrival.

His day was progressing same as usual until his art class, the elective he had chosen because he had thought it would be an easy 'A' but had come to actually really enjoy the course. He took his usual seat on the far side of the room, right beside the only window. The first five minutes are the usual, pulling out his sketchbook and pencils and setting to work on his newest piece, a half complete landscape penciled in with light strokes, when he suddenly heard someone slump into the seat next to him. The seat tended to be empty as everyone chose to sit with their friends, so Michael glanced over to see who had decided to sit next to the loner kid for the day only to be met with a look at the same angry kid from earlier. His pencil drops and he can hear Mr. Walker speaking to the pale guy. "You would be Connor Murphy, huh? I'm Jared Walker, but you can just call me whatever you want, so long as it isn't 'fuckhead', I'll respond. With a few exceptions, the class is working on black and white still lifes of any object of their choosing. Now, because you're new to my class, I'd like to get a feel for your style so I'm going to ask you to create anything you like in whatever medium you want. We have water colors, acrylics, tempra, oils, pencils, charcoal, gouache, or if you prefer to use something you have at home, that is entirely acceptable as well. You can do whatever you like for the day, brainstorm, rough sketches, if you need anything, I'm sure Michael Mell would be more than willing to help you out." The ridiculously tall man with the receding hairline says, gesturing towards Michael at the end of his little speech before walking off.

Michael, who had turned back to his sketchbook snapped his eyes to the teacher who had basically foisted the new guy on him and then abandoned him. The new kid, Connor apparently, says nothing, he simply pulls out a sketchbook of his own and begins scratching a pencil along the page. As soon as the graphite touched paper, Connor seemed to change, he still looked just as angry but he appeared to be much more relaxed, almost as though he was simply keeping up the rage as a front, at least that is what Michael would think if he couldn't so clearly see the anger in those icy blue eyes.

Realizing that he was staring, Michael turns back to his own sketch, trying to focus on laying down light, feathery lines until the bell rings and he can escape the too loud room, his book and pencils already shoved into his bag. The bag he had used last year, the letters 'RIENDS' were still scrawled in Rich's messy handwriting, they were faded now, though they were still clear, still taking up a third of the bag that he had continued to use for some reason that he refused to think about too deeply. As soon as the bell was ringing, Michael was pushing his way through the door, making his way through the halls he finds himself heading toward the parking lot, toward his stupid P.T. Cruiser.

It was only lunch and he already couldn't deal with school. He could usually at least make it to the end of classes. Apparently today was a bad day. Unlocking the door, he slips into his seat behind the wheel and pulls the handle to pop open the glove compartment. He digs around through the various fast food sauce and condiment packets and napkins to pull out a purple lighter and a tin marketed as cinnamon Altoids. Popping it open, he pulls out one of the three joints left inside before snapping it shut again and tossing it back into the compartment before slamming that shut as well. Placing the joint between his lips, he flicks his lighter on and allows it to burn for a moment before pulling in a lungful of smoke and holding it for a moment before releasing it.

He hears the heavy footsteps of an approaching person after a couple of puffs and he quickly moves his hand into the car, grimacing a bit, he hated the damn car but that didn't mean he wanted to wreck the interior, but he wasn't chancing being suspended. He looks up only to see Connor (again!) slamming his fist into the car parked beside his own. He doesn't know what kind of person Connor is, but he doesn't seem like the kind who would say anything to teachers about another student smoking on campus.

Michael was actually surprised that the taller boy hadn't seemed to realize he was there yet, the smell of pot was strong and his door still hung open. Bringing the blunt up to his lips once more, he take a slow drag, the movement seemed to catch the other male's eye because he was turning towards him.

"The fuck are you staring at?" His words almost a perfect mirror of their earlier meeting, his voice is harsh and angry as he zeros in on the boy wearing a too big red hoodie covered in iron on patches.

"Well, generally if someone makes a fuckton of noise while trying to smash up a car I look over to see what the hell is going on," Michael says, tone a bit sarcastic as he rolls his eyes, smoke coming out of his mouth as he speaks and he blows out the rest once he's done speaking. Connor looks as though he is debating punching him and Michael can't bring himself to care. He meets those icy eyes as he breathes in another drag, pulling the blunt from between his lips, he holds it out in offering. Smoking helped to calm him down, it could have the same effect on the new kid. Pausing, Connor looks at the extended joint and shrugs before taking it from Michael, puffing on it twice before handing it back. "You okay there big guy?" Michael asks as he brings the joint back to his own mouth. Connor doesn't respond, he just lets out a huff of a breath and sits with his back against the fucking P.T. Cruiser.

They sit there in silence, just puffin and passing the blunt between the two of them until the last one is smoked down to nothing and Michael drops it to the ground beside Connor. "Wanna go to Seven Eleven? We still have a while for lunch and I haven't had my slushie yet." Michael offers before he really knows why. Connor looks at him as though he's grown a third head for just a moment and then just shrugging again and standing from his spot on the asphalt and makes his way around the P.T. Cruiser as Michael shuts his door and starts the car.

Once the passenger side door is shut, he pulls out of his spot and steers them out of the parking lot and onto the familiar path to the nearby convenience store. Michael doesn't waste any time in getting out and heading into the familiar doors, offering a smile and small wave to the girl behind the counter, still working there after a couple of years. "Yo, Wednesday! What's up, my girl?" He asks while grabbing a couple of bags of chips and a few energy drinks before making his way up to the counter.

"Hey, Michael," She says, giving the boy a smile as she begins to ring up the items. "You should be more careful at school." She continues, gesturing towards his eyes that were a bit bloodshot.

"I didn't smoke that much, dude." He replies, brushing off her concern and pointing towards the slushie machine behind her.

Giving a soft, exasperated sigh, she questions. "Your usual?" He nods, giving her a grin. "And anything for your friend?" She asks, gesturing over to where Connor had finally wandered in. Michael shrugs, turning to the boy in the black hoodie.

"Yo, Connor! Want a slushie? I'm paying," He calls out to his companion who jumps slightly at the sudden yell.

"Nah, I'm fine." He replies, trudging down another aisle.

"Apparently not." Michael answers the cashier's question as he turns back to her, now sliding the slushie across the counter towards Michael as she adds it to the total.

"So. Who is he? You've only brought Jeremy in here before." There was a friendly, curious glint in the girl's eye as she looks at the boy in front of her.

"New kid. We shared a couple of blunts, he looked out of it so I brought him along." He answers with a shrug as he pulls out his wallet, counting out bills.

"He's kinda cute," she says, smirking as she accepts the money and begins counting back change to Michael.

"Okay, I'm leaving now. Tell your raccoons and parents I say 'hi'." Michael says as he pockets the change, grabs up his bag and slushie, and walks toward Connor.

"Will do! Say 'hi' to your moms! I'll message you later, okay?" With a small smile and a shake of his head, Michael steps over to Connor's side.

"You done? Or did you need something?" Michael asks, only to be met with a noncommittal noise as an answer as he makes his way back out the door. Rolling his eyes, Michael follows the other boy out, tossing his snacks into the back as he slips his slushie into the cup holder.

"You usually come here during lunch?" Connor asks as Michael starts the engine.

"Most days, yeah. Sometimes if Wednesday gets off early, she'll drop my slushie off, though." He replies with a nod while pulling out of the tiny parking lot.

"So, she's like your girlfriend or whatever?" Connor asks, voice almost bored, like he didn't really care.

"Nah. I mean, she's cute I guess, and nice, but I'm gayer than Neil Patrick Harris rolling around in rainbow glitter." He replies, nose scrunching up a bit as he keeps his voice casual, realising after saying it that it might be a bad idea to come out to a person he had never met before.

"That's cool," the pale teen responds, nodding as he glances over at the driver. Michael lets out a soft breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding Connor still sounded bored, but there was a hint of sympathy in his voice that was telling of his listening. They lapse into silence as the car was put into park and Connor opened the door to step out of the car. "See ya."


End file.
